Let the Clocks be Reset
by mazarin
Summary: A sequel to "Doppelganger." An exercise in writing slash. "John realizes about 30 seconds after they leave the pub that perhaps he has lost control of the situation."


John realizes about 30 seconds after they leave the pub that he has perhaps lost control of this situation.

Sherlock is no blushing virgin; his snarky comment to Donovan about the state of her knees is one of those things that you'd only notice if you'd either seen it, or done it, yourself.

Regardless, it's likely Sherlock hasn't had anyone in at least 6 months, all the time John's lived with him, and the searing looks he's getting as they walk back toward Baker street are a little less seductive and a little more like he's just been locked in a cage with a tiger.

A very hungry tiger.

They haven't done more than trade touches, and already John's hard and aching. Sherlock's twitchy and jumpy and they're still a 5 minute walk from home, so John decides it's about time he advance the ball, so to speak, so he stops dead on the sidewalk, uses their joined hands as a pivot, and swings Sherlock's body into his. Sherlock's obviously surprised and chest meets chest with a thump and soft grunt.

"Really, John?" He drawls with studied nonchalance, but his eyes on John's lips give him away. "A little too public, don't you think? Wouldn't want you to get another ASBO."

"Find this amusing, do you?" John leans in and pulls Sherlock's face down toward his and breathes against his lips. "I don't know what you were expecting to happen when you came to find me – no, don't even try-" against the half-hearted protest. "You may be able to read the world, Sherlock, but never forget, I can read you. And if you weren't planning to give yourself to me tonight, you'd better say so now."

Sherlock hisses a breath in through his mouth, swallows, and looks directly at John, eyes wide. He obviously makes up his mind because his head starts to lower to John's mouth, to close the final distance between them.

"Good." John tilts his head to press his lips under the edge of Sherlock's perfect jawline and leaves him on the sidewalk, staring after him.

…

Seventeen stairs never seemed like much, but when you have the wiry form of Sherlock Holmes breathing at your back, they're an eternity.

Once they were inside, John went directly upstairs, hearing Sherlock follow directly behind him, anticipation rolling off of him in waves. John could almost feel the weight of his stare on the back of his neck.

Now the door is finally open, coats tossed aside, and Sherlock is prowling toward him across the dark sitting room with a gleam in his eye. John stands his ground and waits, watching the way the moonlight glimmers on the skin of Sherlock's throat and across his chest where the dove grey button-up is already being flicked open with dexterous, long fingers.

"Is this how you imagined it, John? Every night you were with my duplicate? Because I think we could have saved so much time if you'd simply asked for what you wanted."

John smiles, reaches a hand out and wraps it around that gloriously elegant neck, pulls Sherlock to him, and answers with a searing kiss.

…

John's absolutely positive if he doesn't gain the upper hand here in a second, it will all be over far too quickly for his liking. He was right that Sherlock looked like a starved animal; as soon as they retreated to his bedroom, Sherlock jumped on him and frantically began pulling at his clothes, only pausing to kiss and lick at John's neck.

"Sherlock. Sherlock, Jesus, slow down-"

A growl rises from Sherlock's throat. "Why? For God's sake, John, get this damn thing off." He's tugging at John's shirt, trying to pull it over his head while John's trying to untie his shoes, and John finally breaks Sherlock's grip, hooks a foot behind his ankle, and drops him on his arse on the bed. Sherlock looks up at him resentfully.

"I'm not saying stop, I'm saying _slow down._"Sherlock looks ready to start a sulk, so John reaches out and touches his cheek softly. "How long has it been for you?"

"Not counting helping myself, it's been 4 years."

"Christ, no wonder you're about ready to jump out of your skin. I know patience isn't one of your virtues –" Sherlock snorts at this, but his mouth turns up at the corners "-but I plan to savor every inch of you."

…

Sherlock decides John kneeling astride his hips, skin bathed in the orange sodium light from the open curtains, is the most erotic thing he's seen. He slides his hands up John's muscular thighs and watches his shudder of pleasure with keen interest. John leans forward, with one hand on either side of Sherlock's head and dips his head to kiss Sherlock's lips lightly; once, twice, three times, and brushes his nose against Sherlock's cheek.

"I can't tell you how badly I've wanted you" he murmurs. "So much. More than anything. And here you are with me, like this, and all I want to do is taste you." A hot, wet tongue circles his nipple and Sherlock arches into the touch, trembling. He feels that wet heat slide down his chest and dip briefly into his belly button. Watching John with hooded eyes, he sighs in pleasure and the certainty that he's in the hands of a skilled and attentive lover. John's hands are as delicate and sure on Sherlock's body as they are in anything else, and Sherlock feels like sparks are rising from his skin wherever he's touched. _All of those lovers, of course he'd be skilled, I wonder how many were men, how much he likes this, if he-_

"Stop thinking." John commands, eyes upbraiding him from below his navel, before he licks a wet stripe up his cock from base to tip, swirls his tongue around the head, and swallows him down in one movement.

"Ah, _fuck_." Is about the most intelligible thing he can say, and while it isn't elegant, John understands what he means. The heat is rising low in his belly, and he can feel the tendrils of his impending orgasm curling around him. John's mouth is still sliding over him, lips and teeth and tongue, and when Sherlock pats his head lightly to tell him he's close, John merely bats his hand away impatiently. Sherlock grips John's hair, trying desperately not to rock up into his mouth, when he feels Johns finger slip under him and press lightly, slowly sliding inside. Sparks fly behind his eyes then it all goes dark.

…

Watching Sherlock come back to Earth after what was by all appearances a mind-shattering orgasm is quite possibly the highlight of John Watson's life. He's lying on his side with his head propped up by his hand, watching, waiting for the moment when those blissed-out eyes will refocus, as he knows they will. He knows as soon as it happens, because suddenly Sherlock is facing him with one hand wrapped around John's dick and his mouth on his neck. The groan that comes from John's mouth is entirely involuntary. He thrusts slowly in Sherlock's tight grip for a moment, then pulls back.

Sherlock's eyes are questioning. John takes a deep breath to steady himself and nuzzles at Sherlock's neck. "You're so gorgeous like this. Please, Sherlock, let me have you."

Sherlock smirks – _smirks, he can't believe it_ – and reaches over to pull John's hips flush with his, hooking his leg over the top.

"I thought you'd never ask."

John didn't think it was possible to be more aroused than he already was, but hearing those words in a rumbled baritone spikes it ten-fold. He scrambles for the lube he knows is sitting in the bedside drawer and pours a handful. He slicks it over his cock, waiting for Sherlock to turn over. He doesn't move, leaving John somewhat confused.

"Come on then," he urges, "Unless…have you changed your mind?"

"No," Sherlock says quietly. "Like this. I want to see you, know it's you. And I want you to see _me_."

John dives for him then, what little control he has maintained so far shattering. He hauls Sherlock's hips up and stuffs a pillow under them, spreads his knees, and palms his hand over Sherlock's quickly growing erection and down into his cleft. John's fingers slide home somewhat more quickly than four years should merit, but Sherlock's panting breaths and white-knuckled grip on the sheets seem to be approving rather than painful. John pulls his hand back and grips his cock, lining up and pushing in slowly, slowly, savoring the feel of Sherlock's body stretching to accommodate him.

Years of semi-anonymous fucks and bad first dates melt away at the sight of Sherlock's face in this moment, twisted with pleasure. John snaps his hips forward and Sherlock's answering cry makes him do it again, and again, and again, into oblivion.

…..

Sherlock wakes up to John tracing patterns over his chest. He stretches, feeling a pleasant ache in his body and a cramp in his arm where John's head is laying on it. Sliding his arm out, he turns on his side so he can face John and look him straight in the eye.

"I was very serious last night when I said you should have just asked. It would have saved you time pining after me, and would have saved me time trying to sort out what you were up to. "

John stares for a second and huffs out a laugh. "Pining? Really, Sherlock, your bedroom talk leaves a lot to be desired."

"But yet, you agree with me." Sherlock scoots closer, wrapping his arm around John's waist and pulling him in to press a kiss to John's shoulder.

John chuckles again, to Sherlock's growing suspicion. "You think all of those brunettes were for my benefit?"

Sherlock sits up abruptly. "You didn't."

John slides up next to him and bumps him with his shoulder. "Remember, you can read the world, Sherlock, _but I can read you."_


End file.
